The Firestarter's Beacon

The faint glow of lamplight illuminated the clinic's interior, casting long shadows on the walls. Luke lay motionless on the cot, his chest rising and falling in a shallow but steady rhythm. His wounds, though severe, had been tended to with care. Bandages wrapped around his torso and arms, holding the ointment Thalion had meticulously applied in place—a remedy known only to the elves, its ingredients a guarded secret. The sharp scent of herbs lingered in the air, mingling with the quiet tension between Ilyrana and the healer.

Ilyrana sat on a stool near the cot, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion. Her hands rested on her knees, her fingers trembling from carrying Luke through the city. Despite her fatigue, her eyes remained fixed on the man before her. He was alive, and for now, that was enough.

Thalion approached her, wiping his hands on a clean cloth. His gaze shifted from Luke to Ilyrana, concern etched deeply into his weathered face.